The Nine Lives of Katherine Beckett

A/N: Once again, thank you so much for all of your response to this story. Seriously, you all rock and I am completely overwhelmed. I really appreciate all of your kind words and constructive criticism. To answer one question I couldn't answer through private message: I believe Kate got into Stanford, but didn't go there. I think it was said somewhere in season one that she went to NYU, but I could be wrong about that. :)

Here is Chapter 3. I believe there will only be one more chapter beyond this, but who knows inspiration might strike for me to write more. Remember, reviews are love. :)


Chapter 3

She really had intended to tell him, to let him know that she had heard, that she remembered, that she felt the same way about him. But in that intimate moment, sitting snuggled up against him on the couch in his warm, dark, comforting apartment, his features illuminated in the grey light of morning she felt the words fail her.

He stared at her, a mixture of shock, amusement and anger on his face.

"Because I couldn't find the letter opener."

That tone wasn't happy.

She paused, her heart beating too hard in her chest. She had to tell him, she owed him that. She owes him so much; the last thing he deserved was for her to run again, to make stupid jokes, but her mouth just wouldn't stop. She winced internally as the stupid sarcastic comments fell out of her.

"Seriously, Castle? What were you planning to do if there was a crazy person behind the door, staple them to death? Go Office Space on their ass? Ooh, scary."

She really was curious about the stapler. Honest.

"Kate." His tone was soft this time, full of warning. It was the tone a parent would use on a temperamental child. She squirmed in her seat, frantically wishing to run but willing herself to stay. She was so good at avoiding, at running and deflecting her true emotions with sarcastic comments. At least, that is what her therapist had told her. She was good at running and hiding, at building up that wall. She felt Castle's hands tighten on her legs just above the top of her boots effectively holding her legs in place. He wasn't going to let her play this game this time; he wasn't going to let her run.

She watched his hands on her legs. His left hand pressed against her shin while the other was placed directly above her kneecap. The thumb on his right hand was gently rubbing the soft skin on the side of her knee, lulling a sense of calm into her. They had been sitting like this for close to an hour and he had made no moves to "explore" the area further up her thigh. No innuendo had made it passed his lips and there had been no playfulness in his eyes or voice. He was serious and he was worried. He was worried about her.

He had grown up over the course of the last three years. He wasn't the same immature, reckless child she had met at that book party. Granted, he was still immature at times and could be reckless but there was a wisdom in him now. He hid it artfully, but she could see it. She knew him the same way he knew her: inside and out.

She let her eyes slide shut, a tear running down her cheek as her head lulled slightly to the side, her hand rising up to cup her face. She was about to hurt him, not that she wanted to, but because she had to. She had lied to him about something so important. Now he deserved to know the truth and the truth would hurt him.

"I remember," she confessed so quietly she wasn't sure if he heard her or not. "You saved my life because I heard you. I heard everything. I remember everything."

She sat there, eyes closed, epitomizing the two year-olds "if I can't see him, he can't see me" philosophy. It was easier if she could avoid his reaction; talk and bolt, but she couldn't leave this time. This was too significant. This was everything. Slowly she peeked her eyes open and forced her head to face him, to look inside his expressive blue eyes. She was prepared for anger, for hurt, for confusion. She was not prepared for the complete lack of emotion that she saw.

His thumb ceased its soothing motion and she felt all ten of his fingers dig a little bit deeper into her legs. The pressure was not enough to hurt but as his thumb dug into her muscle she couldn't help but think that she would have a bruise. Kate's breath caught in her chest and she let out a soft hiccup as her lungs burned for oxygen. She needed to remember to breathe, but she couldn't with that hollow expression staring back at her.

"Castle," she pleaded after too many moments of heavy silence.

His hands came up off of her legs and moved to wipe down over his face. Just as swift as when he lifted her legs into his lap he pushed them back off, swatting them away in a movement that left her body twisted. He leaned forward to sit hunched, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands ran continuously through his hair. She scrambled to push herself into a sitting position and brought her knees up to her chin, curling herself as far into the sofa as possible. She rested her chin on top of her knees and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. His silence was deafening.

"Rick, please."

There was still no response, no acknowledgement.

He looked turned and looked at her like she was a stranger, an unknown being curled up next to him on his couch. Suddenly he bolted out of his seat. She watched as he paced around the living room, his hands ringing, flailing silently, and rubbing though his hair as he had a silent argument in his head.

Kate's eyes slid closed again, unable to watch him anymore, and she felt the emotion begin to swell up in her. The emotion of those three words, and of the past twenty-four hours: thinking she had lost him in that explosion and suddenly getting him back again. The levity of dinner and the worry turned anger in his eyes. She had seen him be worried, confused and hurt before. She had done all of that to him, but she had never made him angry. Not like this. She had never hurt him like this before.

She felt him stop in front of her as the tears she hadn't wept in months swelled up in her eyes and the sobs began to hiccup in her throat. She tried to control it, she tried to stop her shoulders from shaking and she tried to stop the sniffled breaths but they just kept coming. Uncontrollable sobs racking her body. She could feel the tears and snot sliding down her face as she wept, gasping for breath through her sobs. She hadn't meant to lie, she hadn't meant to hurt him, and she hadn't meant to show up at his apartment in the middle of the night and sob on his couch. She cried for him, for Alexis, for Martha. She cried for herself and her father. She cried because of the pain the sobs caused when they pulled at the scar that circled around under the breast and down across her side. She cried for that constant reminder that she shouldn't be here still, that she wouldn't be here if it weren't for him. She cried because he had almost died today and she had done something reckless, something that should have caused him to get killed, to save his life. She sobbed because she loved him as much as he loved her, and she couldn't bring herself to tell him.

His hand landed softly on the back of her head as she sat there curled up in her ball, crying hysterically into her knees and she felt her heart break a little bit. It was so soft, gentle on her hair. He was still there, caring about her and she had hurt him so badly. After a moment, her sobs quieted to hiccups and his hand slid away as he made his way back to his seat. Gently he uncurled her from her ball and brought her legs back to lay across his lap, his hand back on her now tear soaked knees. He slid the boots slowly off of her feet, exposing her toes to the cool morning air and they curled in instinctively in response.

She looked up at him as she brought her sleeve-covered hands up to wipe her face clean and he was still staring straight ahead, refusing to look at her, to meet her eye. She sniffled quietly as she regained control of her runaway emotions and she almost missed the whisper of a word that passed his almost still lips.

"Why?"

She looked at him and then down at her lap. It was such a simple little word, three letters, one syllable. Why? All of the possible responses and explanations whirled around in her mind.

She had been mad at him. She had practically begged him to say those words just days before; before Montgomery died, before Castle had betrayed her by dragging her out of that helicopter hanger, before she had been shot and broken and he hadn't. He couldn't say it while she was standing mostly whole in front of him but he could when she was lying broken, bleeding on the grass. It had been selfish of him to tell her then, when she lay dying. She had been scared about what it meant. She had been scared of that look in his eyes. Josh had just left her bedside and there he sat hopeful, practically pleading for her to feel the same way about him. Everyone around her was leaving or dying and there he was, still by her side. She had just wanted to push him away also, to make him leave her alone like the rest of them. If he left then he wouldn't get hurt too. If she pretended like she didn't remember he was easier to push away. She could build up that wall and hide inside of her fortress. If she didn't remember she didn't have to respond.

"Because I love you, too."